


Allegro in Scarlet

by ScarlettsLetters



Series: Chair Week [3]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Anal Beads, Anal Fingering, Bondage, Bottom Wanda Maximoff, Dom Bucky Barnes, F/M, Gags, Inspired by Music, Light Dom/sub, Multiple Orgasms, Nipple Piercings, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Pierced Clit, Romantic Fluff, Sex Toys, Shibari, Squirting, Sub Wanda Maximoff, Table Sex, Teasing, Top Bucky Barnes, Vibrators, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-22 23:38:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14319594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarlettsLetters/pseuds/ScarlettsLetters
Summary: Bucky wants nothing more than to leave an Avengers mission review to get home in time for dinner. He's left the main dish on to simmer, tied up on a table with one too many vibrators driving Wanda mad. The last thing he wants is for her to hit a full boil without being there to appreciate how his bound witch handles continuous orgasms.





	Allegro in Scarlet

**Author's Note:**

> Best appreciated with Rachmaninoff's [Piano Concerto No. 3 in D Minor](https://open.spotify.com/track/5uVTvL2iGw42HhdM2R8Nhk). Bound to a table is close enough for a chair to count for the Chair Week series. As ever, I always welcome your feedback, comments, and kudos if you enjoyed this. <3

6:28 P.M. and not a moment sooner, the meeting concludes. After an exhaustive review of a bust-up of a smuggling ring in Harlem, Bucky is halfway into his hoodie and ready to be gone from the glittering glass-and-steel palace of entitlement jammed into the heart of Manhattan. His smartphone is out, the occasional glance at the time the most temptation he allows himself.

Unlocking the security protocols just invites someone to ask him what he's looking at and why he does not contribute more than a non-committal "Mmhmm" or "Sure" to the engrossing post-operation run-through. Lessons learned meetings are never his forte. He's too much a man of action.

"All good there? You're acting like you got somewhere to be," Sam asks from two seats up, generally ignoring the good-natured elbow from Natasha.

 _6:29_. Bucky shrugs his shoulder. "My night to cook."

"Whatever happened to all eyes up front?" Clint taps his finger against the tabletop in a rhythm far too irritating.

Natasha stifles a sigh, and she sits forward in her chair. The hydraulics barely creak under her weight. "We've got the action items."

"I'd still like to cover next week," Sam begins.

"Let me talk to some of my contacts, Clint runs a patrol around Gravesend to make sure nothing's up that way," she says, cupping her hand under her chin and leveling that brilliant smile -- the doom of so many men. "Don't we, Wilson?"

"I guess."

Sam isn't any more immune to the Black Widow's school of wiles than the greatest enemies of the Soviet Union or, for that matter, someone as much a playboy as Clint. Some corner of Bucky's mind registers the blush under Wilson's cocoa skin with great amusement, the rest focused entirely elsewhere.

Clint pushes his seat back an inch, announcement of his intentions plain in his yawn. "Who's gonna tell Maximoff?"

Nat shakes her blood-dark hair. "You know she's got a phone atop that whole magic psychic juju stuff, right?"

God bless Natasha Romanova.

The archer's taps are off-key from the tune quietly trilling underneath Bucky's palm. However muted, he knows the tempo of Liebesleid -- Love's Sorrow -- by heart, the twinkling advance of the movement plied against his flesh in allegro fluorishes fit to confound even a six-fingered Kree musician.

"I gotta go," Bucky waves to the others. He swipes his phone from his thigh and heads out into the elevators. Once out of the building, mostly out of range of the cameras forever scanning the streets around the Avengers Tower, he breaks into a dash. It's a long way home, cutting through the alleys of New York and dipping over rooftops, but he has a date to make.

* * *

  
The low murmuring of Rachmaninoff vies with the hum of air conditioning, twin sounds that signal home. Together the piano's trembling notes paired with a soaring violin soothe the edge off his excitement. Piano Concerto Number 3 twirls through the apartment, muffled but a little for the rising crescendo of a zephyr.

He puts together a meal in the kitchen after shedding his coat on the couch, the discarded leather moto jacket something he can see to later. Pulling out a bagged green salad, he goes about dropping the chopped lettuce into a salad spinner and portioning out a few herbs in a bowl. In goes the creamy Caesar sauce, sprinkled by a dash of oregano and a special blend. The whirl of the plastic spinner drowns out the soft musical cadences flowing from behind closed doors.

Water set to boil awaits the arrival of soft ravioli filled by ricotta and pureed sweet potato, and he hums while he moves through the kitchen with an old sense of familiarity. Drawers pulled open and shut give percussion almost crackling above the high harmonics trailing out at the range of human hearing. That escorts him through setting a strainer out for the pasta, then chopping up a selection of fresh vegetables -- lurid violet eggplant, luscious zucchini -- into chunks. He lays them out on a cookie sheet and drizzles them with olive oil and a dusting of fennel, then sets them into the oven to roast.

Dinner is something he used to whip together in no time at all, hardly caring what he threw on a plate as long as it held some kind of nutritional value. She changed that for the better. Sublime little Wanda Maximoff taught him about patience and doing something properly, making even humble chores an exploration of art and finesse. The thought of her brings his mouth up, even as he glances to his phone propped up on a firm cradle and then the time displayed in luminous digits on the stove.

Ten minutes for the vegetables, eight for the ravioli, and everything should be ready. He glances at the wine rack, and shakes his head. Not for tonight's dinner. Impatience bridles him as he taps his fingers against the counter and starts to rinse out bowls and wash down the cutting board.

All things in their time.

* * *

 

Plate in hand, he pushes open the door. She waits for him, as she always faithfully does. Bound cross-legged and resting on her back, she has managed not to venture far from where he left her.

Her nubile body has worn a groove into the purple memory-foam pillow wedged at the curve of her back to present her helplessly to the world. He picked the densest he could purchase, and the foam admirably maintains its shape, thrusting her flexing abdomen in a gorgeous arch that properly displays her the way he intended. Aesthetics count, after all, and it cushions her arms for long-term predicament shibari in the way he fully intended.

Wanda warbles her protest from behind a thick gag -- one she can't displace, but the panel fits nicely over her plump reddened lips. Important; he learned the hard way what happens when a ball stuffed in her mouth lets her drool too much. Strands of her silken espresso hair stick to her perspiring brow and meander around her atop the solid teak table she lies upon.

Anyone else might think this a bit of handiwork on her part, or a technological genius' dream. Not quite the case here, though he appreciates how well his artistic tastes held up with the refinements of the past month.

Rows of cords wind over her, thin and innocent compared to the thick silk rope properly binding her in a fetching array. Parallel lines skim from her collarbone to her chest, meeting in a vertical stationary knot between her fat, upturned breasts jiggling obscenely with every hitched, laborious breath she pulls in. Her blazing eyes follow him, silhouetted against the doorway to the point where he lays his plate of food down on the desk.

He might need to improve the ropes anchored above her hips, for they leave indentations along her smooth honey skin. Still, his knots and loops converge in an appropriate vee down past her lush womanhood -- more importantly, tied around the thick rabbit vibrator mounted by a powerful bullet that snuggles up against her pouting rosy slit. Tape holding her waxed labia open shows a distressing resistance to wetness -- a good thing considering the puddle Wanda marinates in originates from her soaked channel and the abundant silicone lubricant pumped into her.

Ropes anchoring her knees together flow around the bottom of the table, tied underneath through eyebolts that he tweaks and twists to feel for their tension. When her butterflied thighs flatten, she starts to protest noisily over the rhythmic hum of the toy tucked inside her pussy, the angle assaulting that engorged spot he so loves to stroke his fingers over.

"If I pushed up, would you squirt again for me?" he asks her idly.

Her eyes widen, a frantic note to her shaken head. For the moment, he leaves her be.

All the battery packs in the four sets of wired toys hold up well enough. Something to be said for rechargeable Japanese and Korean technology. He leans over to adjust the numbers raising all of them. Vibrators taped over her plump nipples kick up a fraction. Lightning dances along the quartet of black TENS pads sealed to her stomach in a rectangle, two below the navel and two at the curve of her inviting ribcage coming alive in a quivering electrified dance. Not hard enough to hurt, never that. His tender flower deserves the visitation of bees to her petals nonetheless.

As electricity sparks, her muscles contract and involuntarily respond, stimulated helplessly. The thick clear tape sealed over the tops of her breasts give a fabulous resistance to her nipples tenting under the pads. He licks his lips at the effect, smiling down at her distressed, lust-stricken expression.

"You know how much I love you. Love seeing you like this, darling."

Her response is an incoherent cry. He tugs on a guide rope securing the dildo inside, pulling it mildly askew. Too hard and he would cinch her ankles uncomfortably up against her buttocks and he can't have that while slowly dialing the dildo higher. The motor smoothly purrs higher, leaving six for an eight.

She'll do well while he dines on his salad, watching her try in futility to buck her hips and escape the torment made especially for her talents. The cords emerging in violet and lime threads from her puckered, clenched anal ring are on display for him, and for the cameras installed at strategic angles around the room, spotlight on Wanda's efforts not to climax spectacularly for him.

A doomed proposition, of course, her resistance pitted against the assembled toys working dutifully for her demise. He spears a crisp piece of lettuce with the fork and swirls it in the Caesar dressing, bringing it to his mouth.

"Come again, baby."

She utters a muffled cry, shaking her head. Her flushed, glistening skin practically glows in the ambient light of the coppery bulbs, giving an antique bronze finish to her flexing body. He reaches out, resting his hand against the spread, taut line of her inner thigh. A comforting weight demands no reaction, even as she struggles against the rope to lift her knee. Greedy for touch, that.

Her exhausted inner muscles can't do a thing against the fat black shaft, veined and outsized in every sense. She tries weakly to squeeze out the vibrator but the bullet nestled against her clitoris ensures that hard pearl takes the full siege, any coordinated effort impossible to manage. A good flick and he might send her spiralling over the edge, but he leaves off for that, sitting in a seat to watch the show.

"I love you too."

* * *

 

Tears run down her face after the sixth orgasm in her predicament since his return. She trembles at the slightest brush of the conditioned, cool air over her sweating figure. The shock of the TENS pads cools to near nothing while he peels off the secured patches, leaving her flat stomach bare of the torment.

A cool, wet cloth dabbed over the glowing skin is nearly torment on its own and Wanda arches, singing in gulps and moans around the gag filling her mouth. He can almost imagine the thick shaft bobbing at the back of her throat while she alternates between swallowing it greedily and sucking air.

Her breasts are his next target, and he adores the shibari design for displaying them magnificently. Rope envelopes the bases to enforce a perfect moon roundness on them, the slightest blush cast where her blood is trapped. From experience, she whimpers. Her bound mammaries hold an impossibly high sensitivity bound that way, and he pinches the folded corner of the masking tape holding the bullet vibrators to her stiff nipples.

"Ready, baby?"

No way to be ready, not in the slightest, but he holds her huge, golden-brown eyes while peeling back the tape. Her hips cannot so much as roll, the ropes gritting around the corners of the table, and she starts to frantically wail as he drags the tape from her.

Almost immediately the first snug bullet falls away, the second jittering on the metal barbell jammed through her magnificently tall, stiff nub taking the full weight of its assault. While he might hasten to remove it, he doesn't, listening to the off-tempo chattering so out of tune with the classical symphony filling the room.

Her body shakes harder and he admires her fat nipple, normally a dusky pink and now flushed cherry-red, begging for attention. In preorgasmic throes, she reacts instantly to him brushing his thumb in lazy spirals around the stiff point, teasing her while the vibrations go straight into her core.

Fifteen seconds of gentle stroking, her cunt creams around her vibrator.

Thirty seconds of this, she starts to beg.

Ninety seconds, he peels off the tape and her legs convulse right as her weary muscles tense. The camera witnesses the captivating moment she sends a hot stream of girl juices geysering around her dildo, squirting repeatedly while he milks the swollen crown of her breast. He peels away the tape and vibrating egg, pinching and twisting the stout, tall point. Much of her nipple's elasticity is gone, so he can jerk off her tit like a tiny cock.

Her warbling turns into liquid, gasping wails while she gushes. How so lithe a girl can gush cataracts of girl-honey everywhere he'll never know, but neither does he stop thanking the fates for delivering him a squirter.

Pinches turn into slow twists, rotating left and right, the better to make her juices froth around the humming, thick vibrator.

"I know, sweetheart. I know. Hold on a little longer, okay?" Bucky murmurs.

She can hardly make a sound coherently.

He reaches for the other piece of tape and rips it from her, leaving her puffy areola and lush tit free for the teasing. It takes her a moment to recover from the stupor, lying flat and shaking on the pillow. But she needs to see, and assent, to the crown jewel he holds dangling from his hand while the pleasure and pain merge into a cyclonic storm in her core.

Her rosy nipple pinched and tugged out by his firm metallic fingers draws her swiftly back to the glittering star swinging back and forth. A chain anchored with a clamp set to fit over her barbell piercing kisses her tit, lightly smacking back and forth on her vastly engorged nipple. Bucky keeps swinging on gentle arcs that batter the point.

Violins soar in rapid arpeggios, guided on by the lyrical pianist hammering out the notes of the concerto with a quicksilver touch. Rapid twinkling matches the bounce and fall of the clamp erratically run around her nipple, his fingers strumming her near as quickly on the other peak.

For this, she loves him. The sentiment burns in her blushing face, the way she tries to thrust her breasts higher to his grip.

A hasty breath sucked in through her nose and she nods, graceful in her own demise. He loves her all the more for it, strumming and toying with that unattended nipple. Head thrown back, the melodic cries out of her don't match the Rachmaninoff at all, and he hardly cares as he nooses both her breasts together by a tight length of chain, the better to accentuate her readiness to be fucked.

* * *

 

The beaded plug and vibrators slide out of her pucker with difficulty. He tugs on the wired strands, dislodging a string of silicone spheres. Her tiny star quivers, greedy to keep its prizes hidden within. Bucky carefully pulls on the lime green cord, the strand slowly emerging against the vacuum pull of that tiny hole.

His cock jumps in his jeans at the knowledge, and he can already envision the way her muscular ring intends to milk him of every last ounce of his come. Easy to ignore she's had him hard before he walked in the door if he refuses to move, but Wanda trembles in uncontrollable ecstasy as the beads ripple against the thin, pliable wall separating her ass from her vibrator-stuffed pussy.

Without a word, he drags down hard on the cord, and the first of the beads dislodged from its nestled sanctuary expands the ring of her tiny hole. Bit by bit the entrance expands, so puffy and deeply pink, and he feels a momentary twinge of awe alongside sheer mad desire for her as the sphere fat around as a quarter emerges out of her.

She's slow to close up after that, a short length of green cord visible before the next sphere bulges her dusky star apart. He flirts with it, pulling and letting her weary muscles draw the ball back into the depths of her rectum. The longer vibrating strands buried in her still do their work, serpentine coils moving about as she starts to wail again behind her gag.

"Impatient, aren't we?"

Ropes bite into her supple skin and he cannot help but grin as she lifts her head, eyes gemstone bright -- pupils blown and glazed gold in the lamplight -- with her dark hair clinging in waves to her shoulders and throat.

He gently prods her thigh and trails his fingers up lightly along the natural bridge, reaching that vibrating bullet pressed against her clit. Pulling the vibrator back means taking the humming dildo with it, the rope he wrapped around the base only allowing him so much slack. It's a cruelty to adjust the temperamental equilibrium she manages in the plateaus between her orgasmic highs, but Wanda is nothing if not a sensate.

"Come for me, angel. Cream good."

The bullet rolls this way and that, limited range of motion impacting the finesse. Not that it matters. Like shooting fish in a barrel or, in this case, making a bound girl on his table come her brains out by teasing her clit. He rolls the silicone-coated, velvety bullet against the shaft of her swollen, hard pearl, ignoring the pierced hood altogether. The ring seated vertically occasionally brushes up on the humming surface or his finger -- the flesh one, warm and responsive -- and she jerks in her bonds uncontrollably when it does.

But really, he wants to see her squirt again into his palm, coating his fingers in a thick honey spill of her wet juices. And if there's one way that Wanda Maximoff loses his mind, stroking her clit lightly from all sides is surely it, especially after he prepped her to be a lightning rod for their mutual desires.

Petting her clit with his thumb pad makes her surge relentlessly against the unyielding rope and toss her head, all to no avail. That pretty mouth clamps down on the cock gag. Cheeks bow inwards while she sucks a facsimile of his thick shaft.

She fights him, the way she so often refuses to sink into her own pleasure. The challenge every time makes their games worth it, one of the reasons he adores her so. Wanda gives as good as she gets, and he intends to make it very, very good.

He can forget his own pleasure for a while as he pulls two beads from her, the resistant anal ring surrendering with a pop. The tightening squeeze fights losing even that much. God, he loves her. Loves this.

Her hips roll as the most inviting little hole surrenders its silicone spheres to him, and Bucky grabs the three cords firmly in his vibranium fist. Rubbing the egg vibrator back and forth along her swollen pearl, he waits until the fractured cadence of her breathing grows loud and unpredictable against the piano solo, and presses the bullet hard into her pretty clit. Simultaneously the three strands of beads, some large as priceless gems and the smallest wide around as a coin, are plucked from her in a drag. Her hole gapes wide as they exit from her, tossed from the floor, and she wails like a banshee.

A pleasured banshee at that. Wanda screams his name behind her gag.

Bucky drops to his knees and twists the vibrating dildo around, pointing the bullet to the side of her thigh. His mouth latches onto her clit a moment too late as her orgasm slams into her like a locomotive, every muscle alight, her nerves singing. He wraps his lips around the throbbing pearl, giving her gaping hole two fingers as consolation for the rude treatment.

The gentle scissoring thrusts push up on the dildo through the wall, his lips suckling the exposed crown of her clit until it stands proudly for battery by his tongue. A heartbeat later the hot juices flood over his chin and mouth, a gush that seems never to cease as he loses himself into the moment, into her, his beloved witch.

She squirts until she can't seem to stop, and drowns himself in the moment, working her until they're both gasping and spent.

Perfection. To hell with the ravioli, he's glad to be straight at dessert.


End file.
